


distance makes the heart grow fonder

by ell (amywaited)



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Cute, Falling In Love, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Roadtrip, its just cute, kind of roadtrip?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 08:48:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20543390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amywaited/pseuds/ell
Summary: He realises he’s in love with Richie now. After four days and two years and a whole lifetime of missing puzzle pieces, he realises he’s always been in love, in proper love. The kind of love that Bev dreams about and Eddie talks about and Stan couldn’t even picture it.Now, lying in bed in a shitty motel after driving for ten hours straight because Richie hadn’t wanted to stop and he’d fallen asleep in the passenger seat, with Richie sprawled beside him and the TV playing crackly advertisements, he realises he’s in love. There’s nowhere else he’d rather be, not really. Nowhere except in a car, with his boyfriend who might be his boyfriend, who’s only sort of his boyfriend because they haven’t really talked about it yet, on the way to Los Angeles so he can get his name in lights.





	distance makes the heart grow fonder

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: i dont encourage getting in cars with strange men. by all means, enjoy!
> 
> headsup: i dont know much about american geography so please bear with me, also PAY ATTENTION TO THE DATES/TIMES/LOCATIONS

**20:45pm  
** **Wednesday, December 23rd, 1987  
** **A small-ish gas station just outside of Portland, Maine**

“Hey, kid.”

Stan looks up from his book. Usually, the gas station is pretty empty, especially at this time of night. He wasn’t expecting customers for another few hours, not until all the late night roadtrippers started coming through. “Hi,” he says, putting the book face down on the counter to save his place. “Uh, sorry, um. What can I get for you?”

The guy smiles. He’s the picture perfect bad-boy archetype, Stan thinks, looking like he came straight from a romance novel. All tall, dark, and handsome. Even his smile screams ‘troublemaker’. “Number four, thanks. And I’ll take a pack of Skittles and Marlboro.”

“Sure,” Stan says, easily. He looks out the window, looking for station four. There’s a red car there, door hanging open. “Nice car,” he adds.

“Thanks,” The guy says. The corner of his lip upturns in a smirk. “It’s a hand me down, but it does the job. Hey, listen, do you have a bathroom? I’ve been on the road for a while now, and I gotta go.”

Stan eyes the employee-only bathroom, deciding he only has so much to lose. Besides, he’s the only one working, and there are no other customers. “Yeah. That door there,” he says, pointing it out. “Employee only, but I won’t tell if you don’t.”

The guy winks. “You’re a doll, you know that?”

Stan tries really quite hard not to blush as he passes. He uses it as an excuse to eye up his clothes, a tattered, faded band t-shirt (he can just about make out the words ‘Pink Floyd’, and only sort of recognises them), and jeans that look both too big and too small at the same time. As soon as the door has clicked shut, he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and turns around to pick a pack of Marlboro from the shelf behind him. He puts a packet of Skittles there too, and waits, brushing a finger down the spine of his book absentmindedly.

“That’s a good book,” The guy says, a couple of minutes later, jerking Stan from his thoughts. 

“You’ve read it?”

“Don’t sound so surprised. ‘Course I’ve read it,” he says, smirking again. Stan thinks it’s burnt into his mind at this point. “Do you usually read on the job, then?”

Stan shrugs, smiling despite himself. “Not that often. Just sometimes, when it’s quiet. Like today. Not many people drive around at this time.”

“Really? I’d have thought it’d be busier, this close to Christmas.”

“I guess most people just don’t want to hang out at gross gas stations near Christmas,” Stan says. He starts to scan the cigs and the candy through, moving slower than he usually would, hoping it’s not too obvious. “I don’t celebrate it, anyway, so I don’t really notice.”

“You don’t?” The guy asks, sounding kind of surprised in the way Stan has come to expect.

He shakes his head. “I’m Jewish. So, I celebrate Hanukkah . Or at least, my parents do. I guess you’re going home for Christmas, then?”

The guy groans dramatically, throwing his arms on the counter and dropping his head into them. His hair flops everywhere. “Yep. Parents decided they didn’t want to drive down to New York to see me, so I’m having to make the trip up instead. At least it gives me a chance to leech off of their food and the washing machine. Small victories.”

“New York? You live there?”

“Go to school there,” he corrects. “But after I graduate, I’ll probably move out to LA, or something. Get as far away from Maine as I can, and try and get my name in lights, or whatever.”

“Oh yeah? Should I look out for it, then?” Stan asks, watching the till calculate the total. “And your total is $61.”

The guy barely flinches, pulling a couple of bills from his wallet. “Keep an eye out for Richie Tozier, if you want. We’ll see what happens.”

“Thanks,” Stan says, taking the money. “I’ll keep my eyes peeled, don’t you worry. Be careful, though. It’s pretty cutthroat out there.”

“Don’t worry yourself, I can take care of myself,” Richie says. “I’ll see you around…” he reaches out to the name badge on Stan’s chest, straightening it out. “Stan.”

Stan tries to ignore how his heart rate speeds up, listening to Richie’s mouth fold around his name. “I hope you have a good Christmas, Richie. And, uh, good luck out there. The roads are dangerous around this time.”

Richie puts his hand over his heart, picking up the Skittles and the cigarettes. “Your concern is touching, doll. I’ll be safe,” he lifts his hand to hold his pinky out. “Promise.”

Stan takes it with his, feeling laughter bubble up in his chest. “Good. I’m glad. I doubt anyone would want to be scraping you off the road this close to the holidays.”

“Have some faith in me, I do know how to drive,” Richie says. “And besides, anyone would be  _ lucky  _ to be scraping me up from a road.” Their hands linger together, and Stan doesn’t even want to think about the butterflies taking up camp in his stomach. It’s entirely inappropriate to fall in love with a customer after speaking for five minutes, he tries to tell himself.

“I’m sure they would,” Stan says. Richie pulls his pinky away first, and Stan almost hates that he almost misses the warmth of his hand. 

Richie chuckles, low and scratchy, deep in the back of his throat. His eyes lock on Stan’s, and he finds himself getting lost in his almost-black irises. “Hang tight, Stan,” he says, like it’s a promise. “Look out for the lights.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Stan says, quiet, like his breath has caught in his throat. Richie’s gone, after that, like a disappearing act, vanishing in between one blink and the next. 

Stan leans forward onto the counter, on his elbows, breathing far too heavily. God. His pinky is still tingling.

**14:26pm  
** **Thursday, 24th December, 1987  
** **Stan’s bedroom, on the upper floor of his parents' house**

“Oh, my God, Stan, okay, just start again. So you met a guy at the gas station, and you talked for like two minutes, and now you think you’re in love with him?”

“Yes, Eddie, that’s what I told you the first time. And the second time, and the third and the fourth  _ and  _ the fifth time. I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Stan says, distraught. “I’ll probably never see him again, unless he makes it when he goes to LA, and by then he’ll be too famous and he won’t want anything to do with me, and I doubt I’ll be able to even get in contact with him. He probably doesn’t even like me.”

Eddie groans, all crackly through the phone speaker. “I mean, it sounds like he was flirting with you, so he at least thinks you’re hot. You’re right that you’ll never see him again, though, so honestly I don’t know what the big deal is. Just forget about him. There are plenty of fish in the sea, and I’m sure you can find someone else to pine over. What about Patty Blum - she likes you.”

“She liked me back in eighth grade, Eddie. I’m not starting something up with Patty Blum, not when I’m already in love with Richie Tozier.”

“You can’t be in love with a guy who you talked to for two fucking minutes, Stan,” Eddie says, matter-of-factly. “Maybe in lust, sure. But not in love.”

“Fine, I’m in lust,” Stan says. “But I want to be in love. And I want to see him again.”

“Why didn’t you ask for his number, then?”

“Because I didn’t think of it! I was distracted,” he says, defensively. “And now I’ll never have another chance to get it again. Eddie, I’m going to die.”

“You’re not going to die-”

“Yes, I am. I’ll die from a broken heart, or blue balls, or I’ll fall down the stairs because I’m so distracted thinking about how much I love him,” Stan says. Eddie just groans again, and Stan hears his head thud onto his desk.

“Stan, you’re being ridiculous. Maybe you’ll see him again, anyway. He’ll have to go back to New York. Maybe he’ll stop off at the gas station again.”

Stan perks up. “You think he will?”

“I don’t know, I guess it depends if he needs gas or not-”

“I hope he does.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, though,” Eddie says, gently. “He might not. He’ll be just another beautiful stranger and you’ll have to come to terms with the fact that that’s all you two will ever be to each other.”

“I’ve come to terms with that. I just don’t like it,” Stan says. “And my hopes aren’t up. Don’t worry.”

Eddie hums. He sounds like he doesn’t believe him, not one bit. “Good. Maybe you should give Patty a call. You need to talk to someone who isn’t me and creeps from the gas station.”

“Richie isn’t a creep-”

“Call Patty,” Eddie says, “Get your mind off of Richie. And Stan?”

“Yeah?”

“Happy Holidays,” he says, and promptly hangs up. Stan listens to the dial tone until it starts to hurt his ears, and he puts the phone back in the cradle, staring at it until his eyes go all blurry.

**22:32pm  
** **Monday, 4th January, 1988  
** **Beverly Marsh’s home, in the kitchen, drinking warm beers**

It’s an overdue New Years Party. That’s what Stan’s been calling it in his head, mostly because ‘getting drunk on box wine and listening to 60’s hits’ just isn’t as catchy. Really, it’s just another get together, and as with all get togethers where Bev Marsh is involved, the house is heaving and Stan is seeking solace in the mostly empty kitchen.

“So, then,” Eddie says, dramatically. “I told her she could shove it up her ass herself and I never wanted to see her again. And she looked at me like I was the weird one!”

The room bursts into peals of laughter. Stan hates it, except this is currently the quietest room in the house, so he takes another sip of his beer and tries not to gag. Eddie’s been telling a story for the past five minutes, and Stan’s barely been listening, He doesn’t think Eddie’s even noticed. 

“Hey, I’m going to get some air,” he says, to no one in particular. He doesn’t wait for it to be acknowledged, instead just setting the beer bottle on the side by the sink and weaving his way through the house to the back garden.

He hates being drunk, and he hates being around drunk people even more, enough that he finds himself regretting coming out at all. He pushes his way through couples, ignoring the deep stabs of jealousy and loneliness they invoke in him, through to the garden. 

He’s grateful that it’s empty, and he sinks onto the dewy grass. He can vaguely hear the music from indoors, spilling out into the air. It’s a lot more manageable out here, he thinks, where it reaches a regular decibel and the sweltering pressure of bodies pushing into one another is nothing but a dull impression, left on his skin.

Someone sits down next to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and pulling him into her. Bev.

“What’s up?” She says, whispering against his ear. Her breath is warm. “Why do you look so sad, huh? It’s a party!”

Stan huffs out a laugh. “I’m not s-”

“Don’t try it on, Stan. I know you’re sad,” she tells him. “I can tell.”

“How can you tell?” Stan asks.

“I can smell it on you.”

“You’re drunk.”

“And  _ you’re  _ sad.”

He scoffs. “Yeah, well.”

“What is it, Stanny?” Bev asks, her voice going soft and gentle. “What’s wrong, huh?”

“I just…” Stan breathes out. “I miss someone. And I shouldn’t miss them because I don’t even know them, and I’m never even going to see them again, anyway, but I really, really miss them. And I don’t know why, but my heart just feels really fucking heavy.”

“Aw, baby,” she says, leaning her head on his. “Who is this mystery person? How do you know you’ll never see them again?”

“Because he lives in New York, and I only ran into him at work. I’ll never, ever, see him again, Bev.”

“Well,” she hums. “You never know, Stan. You never know.”

* * *

**16:04pm  
** **Wednesday, 23rd November, 1988  
** **A small-ish gas station just outside of Portland, Maine**

“Station two, thanks, kid.”

“Yeah, sure- oh, my God.”

Richie looks up, a smirk playing at his lips. “Oh, my God, what?”

“You- Richie-” Stan blinks. “I… Hi. Um. Sorry, I just never thought I’d see you again.”

“Life is full of surprises, huh?” Richie grins, dropping a pack of Sour Patch Kids on the counter. “You look good, Stan. I’m surprised you remember me.”

Stan blushes. “Yeah, well, you’re pretty hard to forget. I guess you’re going home for Thanksgiving?”

“You flatter me. And yeah, sort of. My friends, actually, they invited me up and when free food is involved, I’d be an idiot to refuse,” Richie says. “How come you’re always working over the holidays, then?”

Stan shrugs. “I don’t really mind. It’s always pretty quiet here, anyway. Have fun at your friends.” He picks up the packet of candy, moving slower than he usually would in the hopes he can prolong this meeting. “Been a while since I’ve seen you. I think you’ve gotten taller.”

Richie laughs, leaning his hip against the counter and angling his body towards Stan. “And you’ve gotten cuter.”

“Oh, shut up. How’s school?”

“It’s good, doll. What about you? Do you not have school, or studies, or anything?”

Stan shakes his head. “No. I don’t need it, nor want it. I go to the library, I see my friends, and that’s enough for me.”

“Really?” Richie asks. Stan nods. “Isn’t that… boring? It sounds like you need a little bit of adventure, you know.”

“And how do you suggest I find that?”

“Well,” Richie says. “I’m right here, aren’t I?”

“How can I?” Stan asks. “I haven’t seen you in nearly a year, and I only just know your name. It’d be just irresponsible to do anything with you. You could be anyone.”

“Irresponsible isn’t always a bad thing. I guess I’ll just have to convince you.”

“$46, thanks,” he says. “And I guess you will.”

Richie sticks a card into the reader. “Do you want to know what I think?”

“Do I get a choice?”

“I think you’re lonely,” Richie says. “I think you’re lonely, and tired.”

“Am I?”

He pulls the card back out and picks up the pack of Sour Patch Kids. “Maybe I’ll see you around, kid. Hang tight, Stan.”

“Richie, wait-” Stan starts to say, but Richie’s pushing the door opening and disappearing back into his car before he can even process their conversation. He watches him pull out of the station, and watches until the car is nothing but a speck in the distance. Stan feels his heart sink, wondering just how he managed to fall in love with a man he’s seen once a year. He finds himself both dreading and eagerly awaiting the holiday season next year, half hoping Richie will come in again at some point.

It can hardly be healthy, obsessing over this guy who he barely knows. But Stan decides he doesn’t care, and really, living with the memory of Richie Tozier is better than living without him at all.

**23:56pm  
** **Wednesday, 23rd November, 1988  
** **Beverly Marsh’s doorstep**

Stan doesn’t realise he’s crying until she answers the door, and immediately pulls it shut behind her, pulling him into her arms and guiding them to sit on the step outside her door. He leans into her, shaking, and feels her press a kiss to his forehead.

“Oh, Stan. What happened?” She asks, after several minutes, pulling away to wipe under his eyes with her thumb. “Come on. Talk to me.”

“I saw him again.”

She frowns. “Saw who again?”

“The- the guy. Him. The one I’ll never see again, and I saw him again, Bev, and I don’t know what to do.” Stan gasps, heaving breaths, raking in air through his teeth. Beverly strokes her fingers through his hair, tugging gently and he lets it ground him. 

“Who is he, Stan?” she asks. “What’s he like?”

“He’s… his name is Richie. And he’s amazing, Bev. He’s amazing. He’s like, John Travolta in Grease and a bit of Freddie Mercury, and he’s just… so cool.”

“I guess that makes you Jim, then,” Bev says, nudging her foot against his. “But I think you’re definitely more of a Sandy. There’s something romantic about a struggling artist, isn’t there?”

“He said he’s gonna go out to Los Angeles and try to make it,” Stan says. “He wants his name in lights, or something.”

“An actor?”

“He didn’t say. But I told him I’d look out for it. Even though I doubt he’ll even remember me once he’s out there.”

“He remembered you now,” she points out. “After almost a year apart. All he knew was your name and your workplace, wasn’t it, and he remembered you. That’ll count for something.”

“But I don’t even know if I’ll ever see him again, now.”

“Well, you said that last time, didn’t you?” Bev grins at him. “And look what happened. Did you at least try to ask for a phone number, this time?”

Stan sighs. “I tried. He left before I could. Like he  _ wants  _ to be this mystery man and toying with my heart, or something.”

“Try harder next time. He obviously wants something to do with you, if the flirting and remembering you at all are anything to go by.”

“If there even is a next time. Maybe I should just find a nice girl and get to know her, instead,” Stan says. “I can’t spend all my life pining after a guy who’ll barely remember me.”

“Wouldn’t you regret not trying to do something with him, though?” Beverly asks. “You’ve waited a year for him, Stan. I don’t think you’re getting over this any time soon.”

“Yeah,” Stan exhales slowly. “I know.”

“Come on,” she says, standing up and pulling Stan with her. “Let’s go take your mind off of this. Ice cream on me?”

Really, Stan would be a fool to refuse, so he takes Beverly’s hand and lets her lead the way to the twenty four hour diner five minutes from her house. Ice cream at midnight, he thinks, is becoming one of Bev’s specialties, but he can’t even find it in him to mind.

**00:07am  
** **Saturday, 11th March, 1989  
** **The bar one town over**

Eddie gets a car for his birthday that year, something that no one ever thought would happen, and he begs Stan and Bev to go out with him now that he’s finally found his freedom. Beverly suggests the club/bar/restaurant several miles away, and Eddie agrees readily. Stan agrees reluctantly, but it  _ is  _ Eddie’s birthday, and, he supposes, the smile it puts on his face is worth it.

So they go, and Stan hates it (just like he expected to), but he tries to have fun, and he drinks the pint of beer that Beverly puts in front of him with a stern grin, but he stops after that because Eddie is taking shot after shot and they’ll need someone to drive home. Bev watches Eddie and nods at Stan resignedly, which he takes to mean that she’s going to drink too. Stan doesn’t mind.

He keeps thinking he sees Richie. Or at least, people who look like Richie. A tall girl with spiky black hair and so many piercings in her ears that airport security must hate her. A guy holding a guitar with a Pink Floyd t-shirt and ripped jeans. Someone with glasses and scruffy Doc Martens and the same crooked, troublemaker smile. Each time it makes his heart race uncomfortably fast.

He doubts he’ll even see Richie here. No one in their right mind would come to visit a grimy club near Portland for fun, except for all of it’s current patrons but Richie doesn’t seem a bit like any of them. Stan sighs, leaning back into the sticky vinyl bar stool as best he can. Eddie’s dancing with someone, and Beverly’s kissing a pretty girl in the corner. Stan lets his thoughts wander.

He thinks back to Christmas, and how Patty Blum had kissed him at Bev’s Christmas party. Maybe her crush had lasted longer than eighth grade. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time - too much tongue and tasting of stale beer and day old cigarettes - but he does miss the kind of intimacy it had brought. The closeness.

Beverly hugs him good morning whenever he sees her, but it’s not the same. If he were anybody else, he’d probably be knocking back a shot of straight vodka and heading into the crowd to find someone to take home. But he isn’t anybody else, he’s Stanley Uris, and he’s wearing a yellow golf sweater and hand-me-down jeans to a club.

Stan watches the boy two seats down from him swallow back a martini. He watches his throat flex as he swallows, and his mouth move as he chews the olive, and he thinks about kissing him. He taps long, elegant fingers on the bartop and laughs at something someone says, smiling so wide Stan can see the lights flicker off of his teeth. 

Bev comes up behind him, hanging off of his shoulders and narrowly avoiding sloshing her drink down Stan’s back. She has pink lipstick smeared across her chin and a wide, alcohol induced grin. Her hand snakes out to slide her drink onto the bar, and she says, “Stan! You’ll never guess what.”

“What?”

“Eddie,” she says, all dramatic like, “is making out with someone. Like, properly. With tongue. I think he’s going to choke.”

Stan grimaces. “I don’t want to hear that, thanks.”

“Oh, stop being a prude. Is this his first kiss?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I think he kissed Alice Carson when we were eight,” Stan says. “Eddie wouldn’t make out with someone in a gross bar for his first kiss, though.”

Bev looks doubtful. “He’s drunk, though. Maybe drunk Eddie would.”

“Then I’ll take him home and he’ll be safe.”

She makes a face at him. “Ten more minutes?” She doesn’t wait for an answer before picking up her drink and disappearing back into the crowd. Stan watches her until he loses her, and gestures the bartender over resignedly.

“Water, please,” he says, resting his chin on his hand. Someone slides into the seat next to him.

“You were staring at me earlier,” the person next to him says, and Stan turns to find the boy with the martini smiling at him. “I’m James.”

“Uh, Stanley. Stan. Sorry about that,” Stan says, feeling his cheeks flush pink. The bartender slides a glass of water over to him and he takes a sip, watching James’s eyes follow his movements.

“Don’t be sorry, Stanley-Stan. Are you here with anyone?”

Stan exhales through his nose. “Uh, yeah. My friends. Birthday party, sort of.”

“Sort of?” James asks. “How can you be having sort of a birthday party?”

“It was his birthday on Monday. But we weren’t planning to do anything till he got a car. So here we are,” Stan shrugs. 

“Well,” James says, tracing his finger in circles across the bartop. “Do you think they’d mind if I steal you away for a little bit?”

Stan turns to face him better, roving his eyes over James’s features. Sharp cheekbones, dark blue eyes, and a long sloping nose. Full lips, rather kissable, too, but Stan tries to ignore that thought. Almost like Richie, and he tries to ignore that one too. “It depends on where you’re stealing me to,” he says.

James smiles, “It’s hardly the most romantic, but I’m quite experienced in the art of kissing in bathrooms. If you’re up for it.”

Stan laughs, wiping a drop of condensation off the side of his glass. “You’re quite forward. How about a phone number?”

“Works for me,” James says, pulling a napkin towards him. “You got a pen?”

Stan nods, pulling a blue biro out of his pocket. Let it never be said he’s ever unprepared. He watches James curl his fingers around it and scrawl a number out in looping curves. He presses a kiss to it before handing it to Stan, and Stan laughs, tucking it into his pocket.

“You better call me,” James says, sliding out of the seat. “I’m holding you to it.”

“I promise.”

“Good. I’ll see you, Stan,” he says, saluting with the pen. “Get home safe.”

Stan smiles until he leaves, and that’s when he realises that James took his pen. It makes his insides bubble pleasantly, and he goes to find Beverly and Eddie, deciding now would be a good time to go home.

* * *

**10:23AM  
** **Wednesday, 15th March, 1989  
** **Stan’s bedroom, on the upper floor of his parents’ house**

He punches James’s number into the phone slowly, tracing each digit with his finger. He’s worried the napkin between his fingers so much that it’s crumpled and lined now. Really, he’s only calling because Bev had seen him toying with it and told (read: ordered) him to.

It rings five times before someone picks up.

“Hello? Who is this?”

Stan feels his muscles seize. “Um. Stan. Stanley. From the- the club?”

James’s voice is warm over the phone, like molten chocolate. He can hear his smile. “Stan! You know, I almost gave up on you.”

“It’s only been four days.”

“That’s a lifetime, Stan. A hundred million breaths.”

“I don’t think it’s quite that many,” Stan says, huffing out a laugh. “Sorry for not calling, then. I’ve been busy.”

“Busy doing what?” James asks.

“Working. Being my friend’s wingman,” Stan hums. “Bev. She was the ginger girl with me at the club. She’s incompetent when it comes to flirting.”

“And you’re much better?”

“Only slightly. I haven’t had much chance to practice.”

“Well,” James says. Stan can imagine him spreading his arms welcomingly, smiling. “Feel free to practice on me. It would be an honour to be wooed by you.”

Stan laughs again. “If you’re sure. It might be more mind numbingly embarrassing than successful, though. Just a warning.”

“I’m sure I can take it.”

“Is that a euphemism for something?” Stan asks, deadpan. James’s laugh crackles through the phone, loud and mellow and sweet. Stan doesn’t hate it.

“Only if you want it to be, sweetcheeks. Can I take you on a date?”

“Um- I don’t… I don’t really know,” he says, pressing his lips together. “I don’t know. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” James says, and Stan tries really quite hard to ignore the disappointed twinge to his tone. “Some other time, then.”

“Sure,” Stan says, even though, really, he has no intention of calling again. “Some other time,” he repeats, cementing it like it’s truth, but instead of James, he’s thinking about Richie.

**12:32PM  
** **Friday, 17th March, 1989  
** **The coffee shop by the church, where Beverly works**

“So?” 

“So, what?” Stan asks, picking apart a raspberry white chocolate muffin. Bev grins, sliding into the seat opposite him. She’s still in her work uniform, and not technically supposed to be talking to him right now, but she won’t get caught for five minutes.

“ _ So,  _ did you call him? That guy from the club?” She asks, picking a piece of his muffin.

“Yeah.”

“And? What happened?”

Stan shrugs. “I don’t know. We talked a bit. He asked me on a date. I said maybe.”

“Why did you say maybe?! There’s a hot fucking guy, who wants to go on a date with you, and you said no. What is wrong with you?”

He sighs. “‘Cause I wanted him to be Richie. And I thought that wouldn’t be fair on him. So I said maybe, and then I threw his number away.”

“Oh, Stan,” she says, her face falling. One of her hands pats his, chipped red nail varnish bright against his own olive-y skin. “You’re still hung up on Richie?”

“I guess so. I know I shouldn’t be, but God, I can’t help it. It’s been, what, two years, nearly, and I’ve met him twice. I should be over him by now but I just can’t stop thinking about him, Bev. I see him everywhere. In everything.”

“You need to get over him, Stan,” she says. “It’ll tear you apart inside. You need to.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Then… we’ll track him down. We’ll get you some closure, and maybe you’ll better,” Bev says. 

“I don’t want to stop seeing him. But I’m afraid that if I see him just once more, I’ll just end up kissing him, and then he’ll never want to look at me again, and I’ll be stuck dreaming about this dumb guy who walked into the gas station two years ago,” Stan says. He picks his muffin apart more, crumbling it on his plate.

Bev leans over to kiss his cheek. “You’ll be fine, Stan. Eddie and I have your back, no matter what. Maybe you should go out with that guy. It might take your mind off of Richie.”

“Maybe.”

“I have to get back to work, okay? We’ll go to the movies after, if you want. There’s a showing at half three we could catch,” she suggests. “Bring Eddie along and we’ll make it a party.”

“Sure, Bev,” Stan says. She smiles at him, patting her cheek and brushing her apron off. He watches her weave her way between tables and picks up a piece of his muffin, letting it crumble on his tongue. Love, he decides, there and then, is a waste of time.

**16:57PM  
** **Sunday, 7th May, 1989  
** **A small-ish gas station just outside of Portland, Maine**

May brings with it rain, cold and harsh and heavy. It beats at the windows of the gas station, and Stan relishes in it, racing raindrops down the walls. Every customer who comes in is grumpy, and damp, and drips water all over the floor till Stan is forced to put out the ‘Caution; Wet’ sign.

Until Richie comes in.

He looks like a drowned rat, really, with his hair dripping and scraggly. There’s eyeliner - or mascara, Stan really isn’t sure - sliding down his cheeks, but he looks entirely unbothered by it. His smile is wide and blinding and Stan thinks he could look at it all day.

“Good to see you,” he says, gazing up at Richie. “Been a while.”

Richie smiles, checking his watch like that’ll tell him anything. “Not as long as last time.”

“Yeah, well. Each day feels longer.”

“Does it?”

“Does it not to you?” he asks, blinking slowly.

Richie hums. “Some days. Are you wearing lipstick?”

“What?” Stan frowns. “No. Why?”

“You have some on your teeth,” Richie says. “Been kissing anyone with lipstick, then?”

He scoffs. “God no. Not since Christmas. It was probably Bev - my friend. She has a habit of putting makeup on me whilst I sleep.”

“You’ve gone five months without a kiss?” Richie asks.

“I guess so,” Stan shrugs, fiddling with the hem of his jumper. There’s a thread unravelling and he picks at it. “It’s not that big a deal.”

“Well, maybe it’s a big deal to me,” Richie says, leaning an elbow on the counter. A droplet of water runs down his wrist and Stan can’t look away from it. “Pucker up, doll.”

He leans in before Stan can even think about what’s happening, and then their lips are touching and it feels like he can finally breathe. He wonders how he’s gone this long without it. He lifts a hand to Richie’s cheek, and rainwater falls down his sleeve but he pays it no mind, because Richie’s lips are warm and captivating and, God, what is he doing.

Stan doesn’t kiss people at work. Stan hardly kisses anyone, let alone boys at the gas station. So he pulls away and tries not to miss Richie’s lips on his. He says, “I could report you for sexual harassment,” and just like that, the moment shatters like glass.

“Will you?”

He watches Richie through his eyelashes, watches his troublemaker grin and his crinkled eyes, and the twinkle in them that he can’t trust. “No,” he says, eventually, breathing the words between them like a promise. “I think I should at least get a phone number for that.”

“Really?” Richie says. His elbow is still on the counter.

“It’s the least you could do.”

“Or I could kiss you again,” he says, “if you want.”

“You can’t bribe me like that.”

“Can’t I?”

“Yeah,” Stan says, but Richie just smiles at him. “Give me your hand.”

“Why?” Richie asks, but he reaches over all the same. Stan takes it, squeezing Richie’s fingers and smoothing his thumb across the back of his hand.

“Close your eyes,” he says, uncapping a pen. Richie chuckles, and Stan feels it move through his hair, but he does as he says. Stan writes out his phone number, painstakingly, perfectly, making sure every number is readable.

“What are you writing?”

“Call me,” Stan says, instead of replying properly, patting his hand and setting the pen down. Richie grins, not looking at his hand.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Stan says. He holds his pinky up. “Promise?”

“Well, I guess I have to, now,” Richie says, taking his pinky. “Promise.”

Stan smiles, searching through Richie’s eyes like he can read his thoughts. “Good. You better.”

“I can’t very well ignore a direct order, can I?”

“Good move.”

Richie laughs, breaking their eye contact. “Thanks, Stan. Maybe you’ll see me again soon.”

“Maybe?”

“Just maybe,” Richie nods. “One more kiss for luck?”

“I’m not that easy,” Stan says, but he kisses back, because he could never dream of doing anything else. Richie leaves, after that, before Stan can even realise he’s gone. There’s nothing left but the imprint of him on his lips, like a memory that he can’t hold on to.

It’s not until about an hour later that he realises Richie didn’t even buy anything, but now, that doesn’t really matter. All he can think about is their kiss, like he’s some stupid teenage girl in one of Bev’s rom coms, and he doesn’t even hate it.

**13:04PM  
** **Thursday, 18th May, 1989  
** **The coffee shop by the church, where Beverly works**

“-And then he kissed me,” Stan says, taking a sip of Beverly’s latte. “Like, properly on the mouth.”

“Was it good?” Eddie asks, “Like, a good kiss? Did you like it?”

Stan blushes. “Well… it wasn’t bad by any means. Better than Patty Blum.”

Beverly laughs. “That’s just because you’re in love with Richie. I’m happy for you, Stan. And kind of shocked that you gave him your number, but at least you finally managed it.”

“I know. I’ve been sitting by the phone, waiting, every evening,” Stan says. He can’t stop smiling. “It’s really stupid.”

“I think it’s cute.”

“Well, you would,” Bev says. “Little romantic like you, Eddie. I still can’t believe you had your first proper kiss by making out with a stranger in a bar. It’s the most un-you-like thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“Oh, shut up about that. We’re talking about Stan now,” Eddie says, irritably. “I swear that that is all you’ve talked about since my birthday.”

“It’s just so fun to make you squirm, though,” Beverly laughs.

“Fuck y-” Eddie starts to say, before a car squeals to a stop outside. “What the hell was that?”

Beverly frowns, staring out the window. “I’ve got… no idea. I don’t recognise that car.”

“Oh, my God,” Stan says, putting Bev’s latte back on the table. “Oh, my God, that’s Richie’s car. That’s Richie.”

“Well, what’s he doing here, then?” Eddie asks, picking at his piece of flapjack.

Stan shrugs. “I… don’t know. I don’t know.”

The car door opens, and Richie steps out like he’s in a movie. He’s wearing a leather jacket, worn and soft, like he’s far too cool to be there, huge, heavy boots, and a too big band shirt. His hair is slightly shorter than the last time Stan saw him, but it’s hardly more controlled. 

“God, Stan,” Beverly starts.

“You sure know how to pick ‘em,” Eddie finishes, his jaw dropped.

Stan feels like burying his face in his hands.

* * *

**13:10M  
** **Thursday, 18th May, 1989  
** **The coffee shop by the church, where Beverly works**

“Oh, my God, is he coming in?” Beverly asks. Her hand taps out a staccato rhythm on Stan’s upper arm. “Oh, my God, he is. I can’t believe we finally get to meet the guy who’s had your heart stolen for two years.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Richie pushes open the door.

“I cannot believe this is happening,” Stan says. He watches Richie stare around the cafe, watches his face the moment he realises that Stan is there too, drinking Bev’s latte and using her employees discount. “I want the ground to swallow me whole.”

“Shut up, no you don’t,” Eddie says. “Wave to him.”

Stan feels his entire body go limp. Richie starts walking over to them.

“Say hello,” Bev hisses. Stan ignores her. Richie sits down in the spare seat.

“Stan,” he says, rolling his name around on his tongue. Stan hates it. Loves it. Hates that he loves it. “Stan,” Richie says again. “Come with me.”

Everything else seems to melt away. “Come with you where?”

“Away,” says Richie. “To LA. To the lights. Come with me.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

“I… I can’t,” Stan says. He looks back to Eddie’s flapjack so he doesn’t have to watch Richie’s face fall.

“What he means is,” Beverly says. “He can. He would love to.”

“Bev!”

“He has a bag of stuff in my car,” Eddie adds. “Clothes, money, a first aid kit. He’s all ready to go.”

“Eddie!” Stan hisses, glaring daggers at the two of them.

Richie grins. “It’s almost like you’ve been waiting for this, doll.”

“I like to be prepared,” Stan defends. “I can’t- I can’t  _ run away  _ with you, Richie. I barely know you. It’s stupid. It’s irresponsible!”

“Live a little, Stan,” Beverly encourages. “Take a chance. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

“How do you know?” Stan asks, turning to her, desperate. His breath is shaking.

Her face softens. “Because I know you. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“I don’t have one,” Stan says, but he knows his mind is already made. “I…”

“Stan?” Richie asks, looking at him with wide eyes. Eager, childlike innocence. Curiosity, and a thousand life times lived in one. “There’s only ever been you, you know.”

“Really?” Stan breathes. He doesn’t want to talk loudly, doesn’t want to disturb that otherwise wouldn’t be.

“Really,” Richie says, smiling with the corner of his mouth. “Really, really.”

“Promise you won’t chop me up and shove me in your trunk and dump me on the side of the road in California?” Stan asks, holding his pinky out.

Richie laughs. He takes it, and Stan makes his decision.

**18:08PM  
** **Thursday, 18th May, 1989  
** **Somewhere near Boston, Massachusetts, in Richie’s red Chevrolet**

“Who even are you, though?” Stan asks, settling into the passenger seat. They’ve been driving for nearing on three hours now, and they’ve barely talked, except for debating the few tapes that Richie has in the glovebox. “I’ve met you three times now, and we’ve kissed twice, but I don’t know you.”

“I’m an open book,” Richie says. “We could go and watch the sun set on the shore, if you want.”

“Sure,” Stan says. He toes his shoes off, pulling his knees up to his chin. “Alright. What’s your favourite animal?”

“Dinosaurs.”

“Dinosaurs?” Stan repeats, doubtfully. “Really?”

“Yes, really. What’s yours?”

“Uhh… cats. Although I’m allergic.”

“Shame. I’m allergic to dogs. Maybe we should get a gecko.”

“It’s a bit early to be thinking of pets, isn’t it?” Stan asks. “I mean, I don’t even know where we’re going to go once we’re out there.”

“Isn’t that half the fun?” Richie asks. “It’ll be fine. I have enough money saved to get us a hotel for a few nights, at least. I’ll make it. We’ll make it.”

“If you say so,” Stan says. He reaches over to turn the radio down. “What’s your favourite song, then?”

“Maybe something by Elton. Or The Clash,” Richie shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“Elton John?”

“Who else?”

Stan chuckles. “I like him. Well, Eddie likes him, so by extension, I have to like him. Bev listens to a lot of the Beatles, so I guess I like them too.”

“Of course she does,” Richie muses. “I think I have some Beatles back there,” he gestures to the backseat. “We’ll have a look when we stop.”

“You don’t strike me as the type to like the Beatles,” Stan says.

“Neither do you.”

“I guess we’re both full of surprises,” says Stan. He turns to watch Richie, watches his hands move across the wheel and on the gearstick like they were made to be there. 

Richie’s eyes flick to him. “I guess so.”

“Alright,” Stan says. “Do you have any siblings?” he asks. “I don’t. But I always wished I did.”

“Nope,” Richie answers. “I don’t want them, either. I’d be a terrible role model.”

Stan laughs, falling silent. Richie lets him, focusing on the road. “Was I really the only one?” he asks, eventually, quietly.

Richie glances at him again. “Yeah. Always. What about you?”

“There was this one guy,” Stan says. “A couple months ago. Bev said I should try to get over you. But you were all I could think about. It wouldn’t have been fair to him, after everything.”

“Did it ever go anywhere?”

“No,” Stan scoffs. “God, no. We met in a bar, and I called him once, and that was it. It never went further than that. I didn’t want it to.”

“Too hung up on me, huh?” Richie asks.

“You’re pretty hard to forget,” Stan says, echoes of words he hasn’t heard in a while. 

“So you keep saying.”

“Maybe you should stop being so memorable,” Stan suggests. “Then I wouldn’t have to keep saying it.”

“Well, I can’t have you going around forgetting me, can I, doll?” Richie says. “That’d be truly criminal.”

“If you say so,” Stan says, agreeing easily. “How long does it take to get to LA?”

“Forty five hour drive,” Richie says. “We can do that in about five days, if we spend nine hours on the road. But I’m not in a rush.”

“Forty five hours stuck in a car with you,” Stan says. “God knows what’ll happen.”

Richie laughs. “God knows, huh? God knows.”

“Exactly,” Stan says. “Sounds perfect, doesn’t it?”

“Perfect,” Richie repeats, dreamily. “Perfect.”

**08:29AM  
** **Friday, 19th May, 1989  
** **Somewhere near Hartford, in the back seat of Richie’s car**

Stan wakes up curled against Richie’s chest. Richie is still asleep when he sits up, slowly, so he fishes through his jacket for his wallet and pulls out a ten dollar bill. 

They slept in the car, parked in a tiny off-road, away from everyone and everything. Stan thinks it’s the best he’s slept in a long time, tucked in Richie’s arms, hidden away from the world.

He presses a kiss to Richie’s cheek, and scrawls a note on an old gum wrapper - ‘ _ Gone to find coffee, back soon. Stan x’  _ \- and clambers out of the car as gracefully as he can. Richie looks like some heaven sent angel, he thinks, with his hair fanned out on the seat, and his leather jacket bundled under his head like a pillow. Stan hardly wants to leave him, but he saw a little wagon stall on their way down, so he heads that way, relishing in the cold, damp air.

The stall is selling strawberries, and hot tea instead of coffee, but Stan decides it’s the best he’ll get out here, so he buys two cups and a punnet of berries. It’ll be better than nothing, anyhow, so he starts the trek back to Richie’s car.

Everything is quiet out here, calm and untouched. Fresh. He likes it.

Richie is awake when he gets back, staring blearily out the window and holding his gum wrapper note in one hand. ‘I missed you,’ he mouths before Stan pulls the door open.

“I was gone five minutes,” he says. “And you were asleep. I bought breakfast.”

Richie grins at him. “You’re God’s gift to this Earth, baby.”

“Stop exaggerating,” Stan says, trying not to blush. “Where are we going today?”

Richie laughs, taking a strawberry and a cup from Stan. “Wherever you want. The world is our oyster. We could go anywhere you want.”

“Well, we do kind of have a destination in mind. So maybe we should stay on route.”

“We can make a couple of detours, if you want. We’ll get t-shirts in every state we visit,” Richie says. 

“That’s a ridiculous idea.”

“Soo… let’s do it?”

“Obviously.”

Stan crawls into the passenger seat, plucking a strawberry from the tub. “We should find somewhere to shower soon, too.”

“We’ll get a motel,” Richie says. “Stay there tonight, if you want.”

“Sure. We should set off again, soon, then. See how far we can get.”

“We’re not racing.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Stan says. “We can still race. I want to find a phone to call Bev and Eddie.”

“Then a phone we shall find,” Richie declares. He takes a sip of the tea, and slides into the driver’s seat, placing the strawberries in Stan’s lap and his tea in the cupholder. “You ready to go?”

“Ready,” Stan says, smiling across at Richie.

**22:34PM  
** **Monday, 22nd May, 1989  
** **A rundown motel near Colorado**

He realises he’s in love with Richie now. After four days and two years and a whole lifetime of missing puzzle pieces, he realises he’s always been in love, in proper love. The kind of love that Bev dreams about and Eddie talks about and Stan couldn’t even picture it.

Now, lying in bed in a shitty motel after driving for ten hours straight because Richie hadn’t wanted to stop and he’d fallen asleep in the passenger seat, with Richie sprawled beside him and the TV playing crackly advertisements, he realises he’s in love. There’s nowhere else he’d rather be, not really. Nowhere except in a car, with his boyfriend who might be his boyfriend, who’s only sort of his boyfriend because they haven’t really talked about it yet, on the way to Los Angeles so he can get his name in lights.

It’s raining, heavy, beating against the windows. The lights cast shadows through it, painting mottled yellow white patterns on Richie’s skin. He traces along them with a finger, listening to the rainfall and Richie’s breathing and feeling his heart beat gently. It’s nice, and it turns his brain off for a little while. Enough that he can drift in and out of consciousness, resting his head on Richie’s shoulder and watching out for the imaginary halo he’s bound to have.

Richie’s hair tickles his ear, and he doesn’t mind. He smells like sleep, and like vanilla and mint, and something so purely himself that Stan can’t get enough of it. He’s starting his new life, a new beginning out here with Richie. He’ll call Beverly and Eddie every Sunday evening, and Richie will invite his friends over for barbeques and pool parties, and it’s everything he could ever want.

He’s happy here, he thinks. Stan’s happy here.

* * *

**19:35PM  
** **Saturday, 1st July, 1990  
** **A well kept house somewhere in LA, in the garden, on the decking**

Stan laughs. LA is warm, and Richie has been waiting for this day for months, ever since the last first of July. They hadn’t had the chance to have a party then, because Richie was working late and Stan had a job interview at the bookstore down the road. They’d gotten takeaway pizza and watched other people’s fireworks over the fence, and it’s all Stan could have ever asked for.

This time, though, he’s bought Eddie, and Beverly, and his friends Bill and Ben and Mike, plane tickets to fly out for the party. It’ll be the first time Stan meets them, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous, but he’s excited too.

Richie had bought a whole new barbeque, too, and far too many packs of hot dogs and marshmallows. Stan had let him fill the cart, though, because the grin on his face had been too hard to refuse. And Beverly likes marshmallows more than is good for her, so he supposes it’ll be better to be safe than sorry.

They’d considered inviting a few of Richie’s other friends, the ones he’d made in the industry, with their shiny limos and platform heels. Things had gone so overwhelmingly right for them, Stan could hardly believe it. Someone had spotted Richie performing in a comedy club and plucked him right up, gotten him an acting gig and signed him to an agent and a modeling agency. Stan couldn’t be more proud.

The first thing Richie had done, when he’d gotten his first paycheck, was buy several things. The first, a guitar, because he hadn’t had one since he was a kid and it had gotten broken when he went to college. Stan has spent far too many evenings sitting in the living room and listening to Richie compose his own music in their bedroom.

The second was go house shopping, and he’d rented out a modestly sized house on the edge of LA, big enough for the two of them and the three lizards Richie had insisted on. Stan had only agreed on the conditions that Richie be the one to feed them, because he was never going to go near a mouse or a cockroach or whatever the fuck geckos ate. Stan loves it, though, loves the back garden and the master bedroom the most. 

He spends most of his time in the garden now, because Richie had suggested he start a vegetable garden for something to do with his hands. He tries to make friends with all the birds that cross by too, and Richie has a Polaroid in his wallet of a sparrow sitting on Stan’s finger.

The last thing Richie had bought was a pack of Marlboro and Skittles, and they sit on their mantle piece, unopened. Stan hadn’t realised he’d gotten them until he got home that day, and he’d stood staring at them for five minutes before Richie had draped himself over his shoulders and sucked kisses into his neck.

“You stretch like a cat,” Richie says. He places a glass of ice water in Stan’s hand, and uses his foot to move his legs over so he can sit on the end of the lounger. 

“Do I?” Stan asks, moving accordingly.

“Yep. Very cute, really. Are you excited for everyone to get here?”

Stan smiles, meeting Richie’s eye. “Yeah. Kind of nervous. What if your friends don’t like me?”

“What if yours don’t like me?” Richie counters.

“Come off it,” Stan scolds. “Bev and Eddie love you.”

“They love  _ you, _ ” Richie says. “This is nice. I’m glad you came with me.”

“Me too.”

“We’re pretty lucky, right?” he continues. “Pretty lucky.”

“Really lucky,” Stan corrects. “Just think. We started out driving from Maine to LA, and this is where we ended up.”

“It’s crazy.”

“It is,” Stan says. “I’m really happy, Rich.”

“Me too, doll. Me too.”

**21:02PM  
** **Saturday, 1st July, 1990  
** **A well kept house somewhere in LA, in the living room, drinking red and white wine**

“I’m glad you’re all here,” Stan says, slightly warm and balancing on the edge of tipsy. He’s sitting on Richie’s lap, knees tucked up to his chest, holding a glass of wine. He feels Richie’s chest move every time he swallows. “Thank you for coming so far out.”

“Rich was the one who paid for the tickets,” Bill says. Bill is nice, Stan thinks. He’s tall, taller than Stan but not as tall as Richie, and wider, with broad shoulders and big hands. Eddie looks enamoured, and Stan smiles every time he sees his face. “Thank Richie for flying us all out.”

“I’ll thank Richie later,” Stan murmurs, feeling him laugh behind him.

Bev gags. “Ew, Stan. LA has changed you.”

“The wine has changed me,” Stan says. “Not LA.”

“That too,” Eddie says. “You know, I’m happy for you. I miss you more than I thought was possible, but you look good out here, Stan. It suits you.”

“Thanks, Eddie.”

“Doesn’t it just?” Richie mutters against his ear. “He looks beautiful in the California sunshine, doesn’t he?”

Ben scoffs. “Which song did you steal that from, then?”

Stan smiles, he recognises it. “It’s one of his own.”

“You’re writing again?” Mike asks. “After so long?”

Richie turns to smile at him. “Yeah. I am.”

Mike blinks slowly, like a cat. “Good. I’m glad, Rich. I’m proud of you.”

“Me too,” Ben says. “We all are. You’ve done good things, you two.”

“Please,” Stan scoffs. “All I do is work in a bookstore and make friends with birds. Richie’s the one with all the talent.”

“Shut up, you. Not many other people could get a robin to sit on their finger for ten minutes straight,” Richie said.

“Still into birds, then?” Bev says. “Maybe LA hasn’t changed you so much.”

“Our little bird whisperer,” Eddie says, all sorts of fondly. “You two should come and visit us in Chicago at some point. We’re moving there in the fall.”

“Oh, my God,” Stan says. “No way, you’re moving?!”

“Yuhuh. Me and Bev, we’ve got an apartment out there. She’s going to start her own fashion line,” Eddie says. “I don’t know what I’ll do yet.”

Richie chuckles. He jostles Stan as he reaches for his drink. “Well, then. A toast. To the future.”

“To the future,” everyone echoes, and Stan feels his heart settle at the sound of all their voices merging into one.

“The future,” Stan repeats, quieter this time, just to Richie. He smiles and kisses his cheek, and Stan thinks this is the best kind of perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> shoutout to uhhhhhh my friend emerson for liking this concept, for my girlfriend for being my girlfriend and making me want to do better and be better, and the pennygorgang groupchat for being enthusiastic and the best friends ive ever had!
> 
> thank u for reading! perhaps comment if u like? i would love that. thank u goodbye sleep well drink water!


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